


Beneath Our Castles

by dreamsofsaints



Series: Match Bursting into Flame, Garden Bursting into Life [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, gangster au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofsaints/pseuds/dreamsofsaints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Hey,” he greets him. The boy does a double take and then looks about himself comically, as if he’s expecting Zayn to be addressing someone else.</i><br/><i>“Uh, hey,” he replies uncertainly</i>.<br/><i>Zayn grins a bit predatorily. What a delicious accent. He wants to know what this kid would sound like moaning into his ear.</i><br/><i>“You got a name?” asks Zayn. First things first.</i><br/><i><br/><i>When Zayn, a low level lackey for a supremely unorganized London gang, flies to Ireland to carry out some business for his boss, he encounters a boy who somehow manages to worm his way into his life.  Meanwhile,  Harry is a self-destructive addict and Louis is the sometimes-violent thug who loves him. This is how Zayn and Niall, and Louis and Harry, tear themselves apart and then stitch themselves back together over and over again. </i><br/><i>Underage because Niall is seventeen.</i></i><br/>Prequel to <i>These Little Things That Bind Us<i>, but can be read as a stand alone fic.</i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath Our Castles

The first time that Zayn sees Niall, he can’t stop himself from walking right up to him, even though he doesn’t know him from the next random bloke passing in the damp street. Zayn’s in a foreign country, if Ireland could be said to be a country foreign to the rest of Great Britain (and Niall would remind him some time later that yes, some Irishmen would very much like for this to be case) on behalf of his boss, Paul. Zayn had been casually running heroin for Paul for quite some time now, ever since the man had aborted a teenaged Zayn’s short lived attempt to become a drug kingpin, and now Paul was beginning to trust him with some of the more complicated aspects of the business. So now Zayn was in the middle of Ireland, which disappointingly had weather every bit as gloomy and rainy as London’s, in order to talk to some local about linking up his business with Paul’s. A new venture, Paul had termed it as he clapped Zayn on the back and gave him a plane ticket to Dublin. The drive to Mullingar down the N4 (because Zayn was a bit scared of trains, truthfully) had taken a couple of hours since the traffic was shit. 

After the hellish drive, Zayn had spent all day in the corner of some seedy pub in an even seedier neighborhood of Mullingar. Despite this, the negotiations would likely take a couple of more days. The local man was hesitant to join up with Paul, as this action would directly challenge the powerful, highly organized gangs of Dublin. When Zayn and the man finally conclude their talks for the day, the sun has already been down for several hours. Zayn shakes hands with the man and his cronies and then wades out into the crowded section of the pub, which apparently turned into some sort of nightclub afterhours. God, does he need a drink.

Elbowing his way to the front of the drinks queue, Zayn waves a couple of pounds at the bartender. “Guinness, mate.” When in Rome. Zayn takes a sip and immediately makes a face at the bitter taste of the beer. He usually orders mixed drinks, but doesn’t particularly feel like sticking out of the crowd any further than he already does. Zayn grimaces and smooths down his spiky black hair. He hadn’t styled it into its usual quiff, but with his tan skin and black skinny jeans he sticks out like a sore thumb from the pale, sports jersey and polo clad regulars anyway.

Zayn stands alone along the wall for a couple of more minutes, bobbing his head and sipping the beer. The bar is playing The Rolling Stones for some reason, a pleasant surprise. Perhaps he does like Ireland after all. He scans the writhing mass of people uninterestedly, unable to spot an attractive, unattached woman. All of the cute ones have their arms wrapped around their tall, jovial boyfriends. A couple of the single guys look promising, but he’s unsure of how to approach a man here, in unfamiliar territory. He doesn’t want to make a wrong move and get his lights punched out. He had learned that the hard way. The music changes to an upbeat Ke$ha song and Zayn grimaces again, chugging the remainder of his beer. Might as well go outside and have a cigarette rather than listen to this shit. He snakes his way through the dance floor and out of the front door of the bar, the refrains of “This place about to blow…” echoing in his ears.

Zayn wanders a couple of feet from the club and lights up. That’s when he notices him, leaning up against the side of a nearby building. He has one leg folded up behind him, pushing back against the wall, and he’s also smoking a cigarette. Unlike Zayn, he doesn’t seem to be particularly enjoying it. As Zayn watches, the boy makes a face and drops the cigarette on the ground after grinding it against the wall to extinguish it. He’s small, this boy, and young. He’s wearing loose blue jeans and a white hoodie, and is wrapped in an orange puffy vest that swallows him up and makes his short frame seem even tinier. Zayn figures that he can’t be any older than seventeen. Zayn’s only nineteen, but he doesn’t need to talk to this kid to know that there’s a world of difference between them. The kid finally notices his staring. He pulls awkwardly on his shockingly bright blonde hair (that had to be from a bottle, right?) flushes, and, after making eye contact with Zayn for a split second, looks away. Zayn takes that as his cue to saunter over. He extinguishes his own cigarette and does so promptly.

“Hey,” he greets him. The boy does a double take and then looks about himself comically, as if he’s expecting Zayn to be addressing someone else.  


“Uh, hey,” he replies uncertainly.

Zayn grins a bit predatorily. What a delicious accent. He wants to know what this kid would sound like moaning into his ear.

“You got a name?” asks Zayn. First things first.

“Niall. Uh…Niall,” the kid replies, not yet sure whether he should give this random stranger his last name.

“You often hang out by yourself in front of clubs, Niall?” In Zayn’s experience, those who did could usually be purchased for the evening (or at least for a couple of hours).

“Maybe I do,” the lad cheekily replies, his confidence growing slightly as Zayn’s grin widens. Zayn decides to take the plunge.

“Doesn’t seem like much fun. Would you rather come back to mine? I’m in town on business for a couple of days and I’ve got a room rented in a rather nice hotel a cab ride away. It would be shame not to bother the neighbors tonight.”

“What? No, I….uhhhh…no thanks? And I uh, I don’t often stand out here by myself, actually. My mate’s trying to buy some beer from the shop around the corner. Yeah. So, um, thanks, I’m flattered, but….yeah.” Niall haltingly rambles out and flushes a dark purple color.

Interesting, thinks Zayn. That had certainly freaked the kid out. But he hadn’t tried to hit him. Zayn decides to be blunt.

“Well, look, Niall, I’ve got four hundred pounds here with me…” Zayn reaches into his back pocket, pulls the bills out of his wallet, and offers them to Niall.

“What?” Niall splutters. “Are you….for me? Are you offering to pay me for sex?”

“Obviously. And quite generously, I might add. I doubt any other hookers around here make that much in one night,” Zayn smoothly replies, completely missing the point.

“Mate, I’m not a bloody prostitute. Now if you could please back the fuck up and leave me alone,” Niall growls.

Zayn holds both hands up in a placating gesture. “Alright, so you’re not interested and you’re not a prostitute. Got it. How about six hundred pounds? That’s literally all I’ve got on me right now-”

“Did you not fucking hear me the first time, you wanker? You better-wait. Six hundred pounds? Are you having me on?”

“I’m completely serious, mate. I’m in need of a lay, you’re pretty good looking, there are no other prospects around…” Zayn says, trying to look earnestly at Niall.

Niall frowns and glances around. They’re still alone in front of the noisy bar. Six hundred pounds. He could do a lot of things with six hundred pounds. He could put it towards his mum’s rent, or buy some fresh groceries for the house. Money had been tight around the house since their da left. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Was he really thinking about sleeping with this stranger for money?

“I don’t even know your name.”

Zayn grins. Niall’s thinking about accepting his offer after all, it seems. “Zayn Malik.”

“Funny name,” Niall shoots back, stalling.

“Yeah, says ‘Niall,’” snorts Zayn. “So are you in or what? I don’t want to waste my time.” Niall glances around again, still unsure.

“Look, we can just go back to my room and have a drink,” Zayn continues. “No strings. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You can just keep the money. You look like you could use it, and I could use the company.” Zayn’s not sure why all of these words come tumbling out of his mouth. He's definitely not sure why he feels such sympathy and good will towards the kid.

Niall looks up from studying his shoes, finally meeting Zayn’s eyes. “You would give me six hundred pounds to hang out in your hotel room with you?”

“What can I say?” chuckles Zayn. “I’m a sad, lonely man. Apparently I’m a stupid, sad, lonely man with too much money to spare, as well.”

Niall shifts his weight back and forth from one foot to the other and worries nervously at his bottom lip. If Zayn gets him back to his hotel room and tries to make a move on him there, Niall figures that he can make a break for it. He grew up quite wildly on the streets of Mullingar, and he knows his way around a street fight. He’s small, but scrappy, and he’s always been able to hold his own. And his family could really use the money.

“Okay, fine,” Niall sighs. “But I’m not going to suck your cock. And you’re paying for the cab.”

“But you have six hundred pounds to spare,” Zayn teases, and steps into the street to hail a cab.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a teaser chapter! I'm going to finish the other fic in this series before I add any other chapters to this, but I've been sitting on this first chapter for a couple of months and figured that I would upload it.


End file.
